"I've returned, Lord Dazno," said Shae, her voice low and reverent as it echoed in the quiet stone chamber
Dazno stood near the arched window at the top of the clock tower, his imposing figure framed by the setting sun. His dark mantle billowed in the breeze, catching the golden light as it whipped behind him like the banner of a war-worn general. The view of Roshar stretched endlessly before him—serene, peaceful, ignorant of the storm looming in its shadow.
Shae was dressed as a humble flower girl, her floral-patterned cloak fluttering softly around her ankles. Her appearance was a clever disguise—sweet, innocent, forgettable. But beneath the modest veil lay a dagger, and the silent intent of a loyal assassin. Dazno, meanwhile, wore the rugged garb of a wandering mercenary. His disguise didn't hide his commanding aura in the slightest.
At the top of the abandoned shrine's clock tower, silence reigned.
Even the bustle of the city below seemed like a distant dream, muffled by thick stone walls and the heaviness of old memories. The ancient shrine facing St. Durkheir Square had long been forgotten—its renovation halted a decade ago due to structural failures. Officially, it had been closed ever since.
But to someone like Dazno, locks and warnings were meaningless. He had known of this entry point before even stepping foot in Ansarivan, as if the city itself had whispered its secrets into his ear.
Shae stood behind him, her gaze tracing the strong lines of his back, his presence exuding a quiet power that both intimidated and fascinated her.
He's dangerous… unpredictable, she thought, biting her lip. But there's something noble buried beneath all that darkness…
Even during his time in the Empire's military, Dazno had carried himself with elegant precision. His movements were too graceful for a mere soldier—too calculated. His accent was flawless in both Alethia and the Empire's tongue, and his pronunciation had the kind of clarity that only came from formal education—noble education.
"How are the streets?" he asked, his voice a cool wind beneath the mask that concealed his expression.
Shae straightened reflexively. Even without seeing his eyes, his gaze felt like it pierced through her clothes, through her skin, straight into her thoughts.
Her heart beat faster.
Despite being alone together, Shae reminded herself they were still on duty… But a secret, foolish part of her wished things were different. That she could let her guard down and show him her feminine side—just once.
"They're quiet," she answered softly. "Peaceful. No one's thinking of war."
Roshar truly was a city alive with warmth and vibrancy. Shae had imagined a militaristic academy town, filled with cold-eyed warriors and rigid formations. But instead, she'd found children laughing, lovers walking hand-in-hand, and shopkeepers calling out merrily.
In her disguise as a flower girl, she had wandered unnoticed—yet quietly amazed.
To the citizens of Roshar, dragons were not weapons. They were cherished companions. Beautiful creatures, majestic and adored. The city was no fortress; it was a sanctuary.
"That's right," Dazno murmured, his voice tinged with something distant—nostalgia, perhaps. "No one here sees dragons as tools of war. Roshar is soft. Gentle. Open."
Then his tone hardened like cooled steel.
"But Shae… that kind of kindness is meaningless."
He stepped away from the window, his boots clicking softly against the cracked stone floor. At his feet rested a long, coffin-shaped container—dark, old, and ominous.
Without a word, he opened it.
There was no corpse inside. No bones or blood. Only a single, massive sword.
It was easily the length of a grown man, wide and thick, like the legendary sword of ancient warriors. Its blade shimmered with a pitch-black gleam, forged of metal that seemed to drink the light.
Its hilt was studded with glowing dragon crystals, each one pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Together, they made the weapon look less like a sword and more like a relic from a forgotten myth—beautiful, terrifying, sacred.
Shae's breath caught as he reached down and lifted it with one arm, muscles shifting beneath his cloak with predatory ease. The sword responded to him as if it were alive, humming with suppressed power.
He raised it toward the sky and began to chant in a deep, archaic tongue.
The air itself trembled.
A sudden gust of wind tore through the tower, whipping Shae's cloak around her thighs and revealing a glimpse of bare, toned skin beneath. The flowers pinned to her chest fluttered away, leaving the neckline of her dress slightly askew—just enough to expose a delicate trace of cleavage damp with sweat.
She instinctively pulled it closed, cheeks burning, but her eyes never left Dazno.
Above them, the sky darkened. Clouds boiled across the heavens, turning the serene blue into a furious stormy black, lightning cracked in the distance. The sword, glowing now with a sinister radiance, felt like a blade capable of tearing the very heavens in two.